


Disappointing Coffin

by InkedFountainPen



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom, Marble Hornets
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, No Beta, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:35:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27004417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkedFountainPen/pseuds/InkedFountainPen
Summary: The cavity underneath Brian's twin-bed made for a disappointing coffin.
Kudos: 3





	Disappointing Coffin

The cavity underneath his twin-bed made for a disappointing coffin.

It was cold. 

Curious brushes against the exposed springs above him sent shocks through his extremities. His collisions with the bedframe dispersed his fantasies of a plush-lined, polished crate. From the sides uncovered by the wall, chilled air bit into his aching body. The draft had devoured sensation from the tips of his fingers and toes.

Ideally, the coarse fibers of dirt might supply an embrace of heat, a comfort that his threadbarren sweatshirt withheld from the hooded man's reach.

(Hoodie hadn't decided if the clothes he rested in factored into his disfaction. The unraveling cuffs on his gloves and shredded jeans certainly did him no favors.)

It was shabby.

The interior proceeded to spit on his mornfully discarded dreams of sewn-in cushions with coarse fibers of a different kind. Instead of satin, he lay atop carpet. Carpet which felt like splintered twigs scattered across ill-concealed concrete. Somehow, it distributed all his pains onto his already sore back.

The paint coating the bedframe was clumped in some places (detailing what the man saw as garbled faces, squealing in anguish) and scratched in others (revealing the cloudy surface of the metal underneath).

If the ants or occasional roach were any indication, the pine-needles that clung to his sleeves were pitiful in comparison to his longed-for pine box.

The hooded man's attention shifted from scraping at paint on the wall (a task that demanded a great deal of attention when using gloves) to the sudden darkness of his bedroom.

For a moment, it was like he was actually six-feet underground. It was still and quiet and dark and

He couldn't see, but he was sure he needed to. He couldn't hear, but he was certain he was making noise. He wasn't congested, but his airways were clogged by something. He was scrambling for breath, but instead of air, phantom streams of water pooled into his lungs.

Dry coughs tore from his lungs, tumbling into deep grunts and gasps. In his panic, the hooded man went rigid into a sitting position. This didn't work, a shortcoming that wasn't unique to his coffin. (Coffins, even pretend ones, were not made for upright dead.) He slammed his forehead into a broken spring. The coils snatched his woolen mask and left a red welt in their wake.

Brian pitched himself out from under the bed with a bruised head, scraped knee, and an injured pride.

Tripping over silouttes, he launched himself towards the faint outline of his shielded window. His hand tangled itself amoung all three strings. Brian pulled, hard.

His panic subsided into disgust when he could see the space around him again. His eyes rose up to the ceiling, trying to escape the sight in front of him.

The ceiling fan had been the room's saving grace. It was in good condition, but the subtle clacking of the blades made it perfect to Brian. The bulbs hadn't been replaced in eons, so it was no wonder why the lamp kicked the bucket. The fluorescents' once-clear complexion was clouded with yellow, and the glass caked in dust. Unfortunately, it wasn't clouded enough not to show the warped reflect the trash heap beneath it.

Mostly empty water bottles, granola bar wrappers, empty ammunition boxes, and red-stained rags checkered the floor. The scent had long since been absorbed by the carpet. This made the floor smell of iron, nuts, and mildew when stepped on.

The room was unfurnished except for a chipped dresser, the twin-bed, and a nightstand. Rumpled clothing outlined each of these three, the jeans surrounding his nightstand reminiscent of a moat.

His twin-bed was much more disappointing as a bed, Brian decided. It wasn't made, just a creased mattress collecting dust. A dinosaur of a laptop sat dangerously close to the foot of his bed.

Next to the window, his dresser functioned more as a filing cabinet. However, it fulfilled Brian's new purpose no better than its intended. Manila envelopes scrawled with bold marker spilled out from each drawer. Loose paper fanned out from the handles. Unbound, unlabelled journals stared at the ceiling from the dresser's top.

The nightstand was the nearest thing to the door (not counting one of his unlaced boots, the other was somewhere else). It advertised an unopened bottle of water, an untouched catridge, and a little orange bottle.

The shame colored his cheeks like the stitching on his mask. Hoodie stalked over to the bed and pried his frown from the spring. He tugged the wool back over his eyes in earnest.

He decided he much preferred the darkness (and the panic that came with it) to his mess of a room. He regretted his scornful appraisal of his "coffin".

A gloved hand moved awkwardly to the vertex of his stitched frown before levelling. The flat plane of his hand ushered a silent 'thank you' to the burnt-out lightbulb. He tugged the blinds closed again.

Hoodie returned to the yawning chasm underneath his bed. Once again, the pitiful coffin contained his corpse. His heart settled and the disgust at himself withered away.

He wasn't healthy. He wasn't content. The hooded man was just waiting.

Waiting for someone else, a new order, another mission, a different mess, or until the underside of the twin-bed truly became his casket.


End file.
